Beyond the Mask
by Zarkko
Summary: Everyone wears masks. Some to hide who they are. Some to pretend to be someone they're not. But no one in a mask likes to have it ripped from them, to be exposed for who and what they truly are. I should be one of those people. I'm not. I'm tired of my mask. I want it off. And fuck whoever says otherwise. Debster.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I posted a Dexter one shot a few days ago and to but it bluntly... it sucked. Hard. The good thing is that I know why it sucked. I made it too mushy. There was no darkness to offset the emotion and so it ended up reading like the end to a really depressing lifetime movie. I have since removed the offending story and am replacing it with this, something that i happen to think is far superior, not to mention twice as long. I may even turn it into a full length fic. Let me know what you think. This takes place as an alternate ending to season 6. P.S. I know my take on the Dark Passenger is different from the show and the book, but it's how I've always seen it. This fic is partially inspired by another, _Down on the Upside _by _Zeitgeist84_. Definitely check it out if you can. **

_Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter or any related properties. This work of fiction was not written for monetary gain._

**Chapter I**

The church is perfect, I think. I gaze around at the Gothic architecture and gaudy painted glass and a smile pulls at my lips. What better place to kill a man like Travis Marshall than a place under the watchful eye of his 'God'? A quiet rumble from the back of my mind reveals my Dark Passenger's agreement. I can feel him shift restlessly in my head. He wants out. He wants to spread the plastic and wrap the victim and play with his shiny toys. He wants feel that gooey warmth spread across his fingers. He wants to savor this kill. Not yet, I think, quieting him down. I'm here for more than murder.

Deb asked me to do a forensic sweep and the least I can do is oblige her. She is technically my boss. I smile wryly at the thought as I balance my crime scene kit on a nearby pew. My thumbs find the latches and I pop them open. The lid swings up and I look down at my second favorite set of tools. My fingers twitch and I imagine them reaching for beautiful blades rather than cotton swabs and finger print dust. I briefly entertain the thought of finishing my hunt now, damn the rest. It is gone as soon as it comes. Laying the plastic will disturb any remaining evidence and I have to have something to show my sister from my efforts tonight. Travis will keep for now, tucked snugly in the back of my SUV.

I pick my gear and go to work, swabbing and dusting with practiced precision. There's a comfort to be found in the familiarity of forensic work. My hands are steady and quick, having done this dance a thousand times. The routine reminds me of the methodical nature of my kills. It dredges up memories of shining plastic and cold steel. My Passenger flexes his claws eagerly and I feel his excitement as my own. I can't wait to get to the main event. But I wait all the same. Travis deserves all my attention for what he did to my cub and I can't do that while I'm focusing on this. Besides, Deb is just as important to me as Harrison and I owe it to her to do the work.

I'm squeezed under a pew, reaching for something that looked like it might be a cuff link, when my Passenger growls loudly in my ear. I go still at the warning, every muscle freezing up simultaneously as I strain my ears. Sure enough, I can hear footsteps echo from the entry hall at the front of the church. I watch from my prone position as the bottom of the doors open and a pair of women's heeled boots step uncertainly into view. Blood is pounding behind my eyes and poison blackness rushes through my veins as I prepare for the possibility that I may need to kill this interloper. My Dark Passenger hisses in delight as Dexter begins to step back into the shadows to allow him center stage.

"Dexter?" Her voice rings out in the silence of the church and world stops. Debra? What the fuck is she doing here? Who cares! My Passenger hisses at me. We can't let her interfere! He bares his gleaming fangs, preparing to strike… No! I slam the lid on him and send him scurrying angrily into the shadows as Dexter takes the forefront again. Not Debra. Never Debra. My passenger snarls in the dark as he ruffles his feathers threateningly. I pay him no heed, focusing on getting my out of control heart to be fucking quiet. It's thundering in my ears like some demonic bongo drum. Debra calls my name again and I know I have to make an appearance lest she get suspicious and do something like check the back of my fucking truck. That would complicate things.

I take a breath and pop my head out from under the pew to find her standing at the front of the aisle way. "Deb?" I call out curiously. She jumps back, startled as one hand flies to her holstered sidearm and the other to her chest. "Fuck!" She shouts, the word sounding horribly loud in the previously quiet church. He her eyes fall to me and narrow dangerously. I wince. This won't go well. "Jesus H fucking Christ, Dex!" I flinch again. I think she just broke two commandments in the same sentence. "You scared the shit outta me!" She seethes.

"Sorry." I offer meekly.

Deb takes a deep breath and exhales slowly through her nose as her hand drops from where it gripped her gun. I take a moment to pull myself fully out from under the pew and climb to my feet, idly dusting some dirt off my shirt as I do. The sight of my usual murder shirt, an olive green Henley, reminds me that I'm standing in a planned kill sight with my sister while wearing my kill clothes and _oh I'm so fucked_.

Deb manages to compose herself enough to throw me another glare. "What the fuck were you doing under there?" She asks.

I shrug and hold up the cuff link I managed to snag. "My job."

She takes a step forward and peers inquisitively at the item in my hand. "What the hell is that?"

I take a closer look at the item in question and discover, to my own mild disappointment, that what I thought was a cuff link was actually just a rusty nail. "Nothing important, apparently." I mutter. Ah well, not every swing is a home run. That's a saying, right? I drop the nail to the floor where it bounces and rolls back under the pew. Now I turn my eyes to Debra, who doesn't move. "And what exactly are you doing here?" I ask in what I hope is a casual manner that doesn't scream 'I'm a serial killer please don't catch me'. I'm not sure it works because her breath hitches and she ducks her head. Classic secretive Deb. Normally I find it kind of adorable, but considering the circumstances tonight, it's a worrisome sign.

My Dark Passenger doesn't help matters by snarling in my ear. She knows! I exert a great amount of will to drown him out. Now isn't the time. Besides, I reason, if she knew I'd probably already be in handcuffs. Or riddled with bullets. Who knows how Deb would react when confronted with the real me? The thought is a frightening one, and I put it away so I can focus on my sister. "Deb?" I ask softly.

She looks up at me and something in her eyes makes my chest twinge uncomfortably. "I, uh, needed to talk to you."

I blink in surprise. She needed to talk? About what? I raise a single brow. "And you couldn't call?"

She grimaces slightly. "This is more of a face to face kind of talk." She says quietly.

Oh. Well that can't be good. My heartbeat kicks up again and I have the strangest urge to suddenly confess everything to her, right here. I don't. "Is everything alright?" I ask instead.

Deb rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. "No…Yes…I don't fucking know."

I stare a bit dumbly at her. "Okay?"

Deb groans and raises a hand to her forehead. "I'm not making any sense, am I?" She asks.

"Not really." I answer glibly. Apparently it's the right thing to say because she flashes me a small smile. It only lasts a moment, dropping away rather quickly. I find myself idly disappointed. She sighs again. "Look can we just sit the fuck down for a moment? This is gonna be awkward enough without us standing around like a couple of assholes." I'm not sure I get the reference, what does being an asshole have to do with standing, but I oblige her anyway. I step to the side and motion to the pew I just crawled out from under. She makes her way past me and collapses into the aisle side seat. It means I have to scoot past her to get to my seat and she sucks in a breath when I do, but says nothing.

We sit in silence for a moment until I can't take it anymore. "Deb, are you sure you're okay? Because you're kinda starting to freak me out." Understatement of the century. I've got an unconscious serial killer in the back of my SUV that I was planning on chopping into tiny pieces tonight and not knowing why Deb is here is pushing me right to the fucking edge.

Deb turns to face me on the pew, tucking her legs under her and leaning back against the arm rest. It looks horrifically uncomfortable but I refrain from saying so because it seems like she's finally ready to get to the point. She picks idly at the strap on her watch for a moment before she speaks. "You know I've been seeing a shrink?" She blurts out, eyes not wavering from her wrist. I find my gaze drawn there too, idling on smooth skin. "Yes." I answer uncertainly, unsure of where she's going with this.

"Well we've been talking a lot and she helped me realize something about myself…. And you."

Well that's mildly concerning. At this point my nerves are frayed enough that I'm tired of pussyfooting around whatever it is she's trying to say, so I get a little pushy. "Deb just tell me what the hell's going on." My voice comes out a little sharper than I meant and when she finally looks up to meet my eyes there's something in them again that inexplicably makes me regret my tone, so I add: "Please."

"I just… look this… god this is so fucked!" Her voice quavers briefly and I feel another flash of what? Guilt? Is this what guilt feels like?

"Look can I just ask you question? And you have to tell the truth, no matter what." She glares lightly at me and my heart kicks up again. So this is it? This is what it's all about. She's finally going to ask. My throat feels like it's closing up and I dimly register myself nodding. She takes a breath and I brace myself for the impact. Are you a serial ki-?

"Do you remember what happened this morning?"

Wait, what? My confusion must show on my face because she elaborates for me. "When I came to see you after your boat washed ashore?"

Oh. _Oh_. I suddenly remember what she's talking about and the tension drops from my shoulders. I could almost smack myself for jumping to conclusions. If Deb were going to legitimately ask me about being a serial killer she would be a hell of a lot angrier.

"Yes?" My voice catches a little so I clear my throat and try again. "Yes."

If Deb notices my inner turmoil she doesn't show it, instead asking "And you said that you loved me?"

I blink in surprise. I did say that, didn't I? I don't really remember why, it just sorta came out on its own. But what does any of this matter? "I remember." I say.

She nods and then pauses for a moment, suddenly looking pensive. "What…" She starts "What did you mean?"

I can't help but stare dumbly at her. "What do you mean 'what did I mean'? Isn't the statement kind of self explanatory?"

Deb narrows her eyes at me for a moment. "No, I mean _how_ exactly did you mean it? Can you describe the feeling?"

Okay, what the hell? At this point all thoughts of Travis and his soon to be gruesome fate have fled my mind in favor of gawping at Debra. "Why?" I ask.

Deb huffs at me. "Dex, please? It's important."

I slouch back against the pew and wonder what the hell is going on? What do I say? My Dark Passenger seizes the opportunity with zeal. Lie, he urges, tell her all the gooey brotherly love platitudes she wants so we can get to work. Play your part. I consider it for a moment. It _would_ be easier. But Deb is staring at me with big hazel eyes and a look that says her whole world hangs on my next words. And suddenly I realize I _can't_ play the part. I can't lie to her, not like this. It's a disconcerting feeling. I've never not been able to lie before. Never not been able to play the part of Dexter. Usually moments like this are when my conscience rears it's head in the ghostly form of my dead foster father to give me advice, but I have no such luck. What's the other option? Honesty? 'Sorry Deb, but it was a lie. The brother you've known your whole life is a carefully constructed mask that I put in place to hide the fact that I'm a twisted fucking psycho. Oops.'

Yeah, because that'll go over well.

"_Is that how you really feel?"_ Ah, there's Harry. You're late, old man.

"_Do you really think you're nothing but a monster in a mask?" _Isn't that what you taught me?

"_Maybe I was wrong. It was a long time ago. You've changed so much. Maybe it's time to stop lying to yourself?"_

"Dex?" I look up into Debra's eyes to see uncertainty staring back at me. Ah, I spaced out there, didn't I? And Harry is gone now so I guess I'm on my own. Bastard.

"Sorry." I smile apologetically at her. "Just gimme a second? I'm not very good at the whole 'emotion' thing."

We share a small smile at that and I feel a little lighter inside. Time to stop lying, huh Harry? Okay. Fuck it, let's try honesty. I take a moment to gather myself before I speak. "I guess…" I say "I guess it's like you're the eye of my storm." Wow, I really am terrible at this, aren't I?

Deb looks confused, but she waits patiently for me to continue. It gives me a surprising little bit of courage, so I plow on. "You know how hurricanes have an eye in the middle? And all around it is this horrible chaos, but right there in that one little spot, it's calm and serene." At this point my eyes slide from Deb to stare at a spot just over her shoulder, but I'm a little too busy being _honest_ to notice.

"It's like that. No matter how messed up or chaotic my world gets, as long as I can get back to you at the center, I know I'll be okay. You're really my anchor. You keep me grounded and safe from the storm and sometimes it feels like I can't breathe unless I'm near you. I've seen some pretty fucked up shit in the past few years and it's… changed me. Made me into something I'm not sure I want to be. Honestly, sometimes I feel like the only time I'm human is when I'm with you." I don't know where the hell this is coming from but damn if it doesn't feel good and holy crap I'm _feeling_ and is this what it's like to be a normal person?

"I don't really know how to explain it properly, except I know for a fact that, other than my son, you are the most important person in my life and I really don't want to know what I'd be like without you."

As soon as I stop speaking I'm stunned by the silence. Even my Dark Passenger is suspiciously absent from my mind and I can't bring myself to care because my heart is hammering in my chest and my cheeks are flushed and _fuck me_ did someone slip me some heroin because I feel like I just had the trip of a lifetime!

A soft breath reminds me that I'm not alone and I slide my gaze over to Deb. Tears have gathered in her eyes and her hands are over her mouth. All at once I fear that I fucked up and said the wrong thing and drove away this woman who I only just realized I _can't live without_. "Deb-!"

She takes me by surprise when she lunges forward and crushes her lips to mine, wrapping her arms around my neck and _what the holy fuck!_ Her lips are warm and moist, moving against my own and it's actually not horrible but I'm still too stunned to react when she pushes herself off of me, scrambling out of the pew and into the aisle.

"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. I didn't…. I shouldn't have… what the fuck?" Her voice is dreadfully soft and its horrified tone doesn't match her flushed cheeks. "I… I should… I have to go!" She turns on her heel and practically sprints to the exit of the church, throwing open the doors and dashing out. By the time I have enough control over myself to close my fucking mouth and move, her car is speeding off down the road.

I manage to stand on wobbly legs and stumble drunkenly out into the night. I stand by my truck and stare blankly at the road because, once again, what the _fuck!_ I'm still so stunned that I manage to ignore the way my truck has begun to shake and scream muffled obscenities at me. I ignore it for a whole five minutes before it becomes too much. "Shut the fuck up!" I snap, my shout echoing down the broken road. The car actually obliges and I take a minute marvel at the fact, until it starts up again and I realize that it's just Travis. Shit, I forgot about Travis.

My Dark Passenger apparently didn't though, because he appears from wherever he was hiding with a vengeance, slamming into Dexter and forcing him into the shadows. It's actually fairly terrifying, but I don't care because after the night I've had I just really need to kill something. That something just so happens to be helpfully gift wrapped in the back of my SUV.

I drag Travis into the church and commence my ritual, but it's just not the same. When I eventually plunge my blade into his chest and watch that beautiful crimson well up beneath the plastic, all I can think of is hazel eyes and warm lips on mine. In the end my Dark Passenger and I are both left unsatisfied. Hours later, as I dump the neatly packaged remains of Travis Marshall into the deep, I realize that I never took a blood slide. And somehow, I really can't find it in myself to care.

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><p><strong>As always, reviews and criticisms are appreciated. <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm**** back! I just want to give a tremendous thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. Your amazing support is the whole reason this chapter exists. Thank you so much. Also, as I'm sure you've noticed, I've changed the title to this story. 'Dark Mask' sounds a bit too much like a comic book villain for my tastes.**

_Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter or any related properties. This work of fiction was not written for monetary gain._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter II<strong>

_Blood. It's everywhere_. _It's pressing into me from all sides and I can't hear or feel anything but sickly warmth. I open my mouth to scream but it's only filled with more blood. I'm drowning in it. I can't move or see or fucking think because I'm sinking in a sea of blood. My Dark Passenger is laughing at me as he circles below, made of black scales and razor teeth and dead eyes. He pulls me deeper into the depths, like so many of my victims before me and I realize that I deserve this. This is all I'll ever deserve. And then he's all around me and he's filling up my empty spaces and feasting on me and I'm dying and all I can think of is a golden haired little boy and an angel with hazel eyes and I'm so sorry I'll never see you again. I'm gone now. Spread out into black bags and scattered across the sea floor. And the Passenger is walking and talking and wearing my face and wrong, all wrong. Deb smiles at him and Harrison reaches for what he thinks is his father and neither can see the dripping blade he has clenched behind his back and I have to warn them and stop him but I can't because it was me all along. I did this. I let him out and I set him loose and no no no nononononono-_

"NO!" I wrench myself straight up in bed with a scream and find myself gasping and sweating and flinching from the sound of my Dark Passenger shrieking and laughing in my mind and oh god I'm going to be sick. I stumble from my bed and make a mad dash to the bathroom, only just making it in time to spew my dinner into the porcelain bowl. I kneel there for what seems like hours, emptying my guts and shivering from the freezing tile beneath me.

After a while the only thing I can hear is my own ragged breathing and the vents spilling cold air into the apartment. My Passenger is quiet now, radiating smugness from his kingdom in the dark of my mind. I'm not sure I want to know why.

I feel Harry's presence next to me more than I see him kneel. _"Are you all right, son?"_

I blink slowly, dropping my head to rest my cheek against the cold toilet. "Not even remotely." I say quietly. Something flashes in my mind, a little boy and a monster, and I surge to my feet, gasping aloud. "Harrison!" My stomach twists uncomfortably as I stagger out of the bathroom but I ignore it because I need to see my son _right fucking now_. I slip into my boy's room with as much silence and grace as I can muster, trying not to wake him with my clumsiness. I can't help but heave a sigh of relief as I finally come to stand over his sleeping form. Fine. He's just fine. I smile lightly at the sight of Harrison sprawled out all over his blankets. I bend down to press a kiss to his hair and make my way out of the room. Harry is waiting for me in the kitchen and I don't even bother with the lights, going straight for a cabinet instead.

A few years ago, Deb got me a large bottle of whiskey for my birthday. At the time, I just put it in the back of a cabinet and forgot about it. I don't much care for alcohol beyond the occasional beer. It numbs your mind and dulls your senses, something that is unacceptable to any predator. But right now I could do with being a little numb. I pour myself a glass and pretend not to see the way my hand shakes. "You want one?" I offer sarcastically. Harry doesn't answer. He just watches. I frown heavily at him and take a large sip. The whiskey scorches a trail of fire as it goes gown my gullet and I groan quietly because hey that's not too bad at all.

"What's with you?" I ask, looking back up at the ghost standing in my kitchen. "Usually you're downright talkative. Always filled to bursting with sagely advice."

Harry frowns at me and I feel vaguely like I'm being scolded. _"I'm worried about you, Dexter."_

"You're not even real." I chuckle weakly, "You're a figment of my imagination, a semi physical representation of my conscience. You don't get to be worried."

"_And yet I am all the same. This isn't like you."_

"Yeah, no shit." I mutter caustically. He doesn't need to fucking tell me that. Just thinking back on my dream makes me shiver. I've had plenty of nightmares before, but never like this. This felt like a warning. It's an unsettling thought and it makes my Dark Passenger rumble mockingly in my mind. "This is your fault." I tell Harry.

He raises an eyebrow. _"How so?"_

"Last night you told me to stop lying to myself and to be honest. Obviously it was horrible advice, because now I'm having fucked up dreams and I'm early morning binge drinking. I officially fire you as my conscience."

Harry leans forward a bit. _"How can it be my fault if I'm not even real?"_

Damn. I hadn't thought of that. "I hate you." I say.

"_No you don't."_

Right again. Fuck. I narrow my eyes and glare at him. "Fine. I intensely dislike you." I say it a bit childishly and he gives me a tired grin before he disappears completely, leaving me standing alone in the dark with a glass of whiskey. Where I've apparently spent the last ten minutes talking to myself. Great, now I'm going crazy. I giggle a bit dementedly at the thought and drain the rest of my glass.

* * *

><p>The elevator doors slide open with a quiet sigh and I step onto the tiled floors of the homicide division. I've always liked early mornings at work. The low key hustle and bustle of people who really don't want to be awake right now is always so much calmer than the rush of mid day. I start making my way to the lab, greeting people along the way. I don't know them all but it's the polite thing to do. It's what Dexter would do. My Passenger huffs angrily in my ear. I'm stopped while crossing the bullpen by a large hand on my arm. Sergeant Angel Batiste steps in front of me with a smile that drops a bit once he gets a good look at me. "Jesus, Dexter. You look like shit."<p>

I stare at him, affronted on behalf of my appearance. "Well good morning to you too, sunshine." I snark.

He colors a bit. "Sorry, bro. You have a long night?"

I think of darkened churches and shining blades. I think of a monster in a sea of blood. I think of soft eyes and warm kisses. My eyes move involuntarily to land on Debra's office door. It's closed and the blinds are shut. "You have no idea." I say.

Angel nods. "Must be something going around." He says. "The lieutenant called in today too."

My eyes widen in surprise. "Deb's sick?" I ask. That doesn't make any sense. She seemed fine when I saw her last night. Well… maybe not fine, but definitely not sick. I frown as a thought occurs to me. Is it _because _of last night? Is she avoiding me?

Angel shrugs. "I guess so. Maybe you should check up on her after you get off?"

I remember the terrified look in her eyes after she kissed me and I find myself nodding. "Yeah, I think I will."

Angel claps me on the shoulder and grins. "Good." He says. "I'll let you get to work." He gives me another nod and strides off to his desk. I start towards my lab, absentmindedly weaving between people and desks while my mind is a million miles away. I have to resist the urge to turn around and head straight to Deb's. To apologize for my outburst last night and for whatever it did to her. To ask what I can do to fix it. The idea of her cutting me out of her life in any way is more horrible than I could have ever imagined. My Dark Passenger snarls in my ear. This is a meaningless distraction, he says. And distractions get monsters like us thrown in cages. Forget it. I'm only slightly surprised to find that I can't.

The morning is blessedly quiet from there on out. I ensconce myself in my lab and soon my troubles are lost in a flood of blood analysis and forensic reports. When I was a younger man, when I still believed in myself and in my monster, I chose this job for one simple reason. Convenience. It was perfect. It allowed me easy access to more murderers and psychos than my Passenger could ever need, and it gave me the opportunity to influence the course of an investigation, if it ever became necessary. That was all it was meant to be. But over the years I have become truly fond of my chosen career. There's something so fulfilling in crime scene forensics. It's like putting a puzzle together backwards. Taking a completed picture and disassembling it piece by piece until you get to where it all started. The feeling of finding that one crucial bit of evidence that blows a case wide open is one of the sweetest things I've ever known.

And perhaps, it's a way to honor Harry as well. A way to prove that being a clever killer wasn't the only thing he taught me. I like to think he would be proud of the way I've chosen to live my life outside of the Code. Around noon I'm pulled from my thoughts by a knock on the open door and I swivel my chair around to see Angel peering at me through the doorway.

"Hey Dexter." He says. "Grab your kit, we've got a fresh one."

A smile jumps unbidden to my face. Finally, I think. A chance to _do_ something.

"I'll be right there." I answer.

* * *

><p>The sweltering Miami sun is burning against my back as I crouch over the woman's body. She's pretty enough I suppose, slim and blonde haired like most prefer. A blood soaked tank top and short denim skirt barely preserve her modesty. The dried crimson covers her from head to foot and has been splattered across the alley walls, pooling in the cracks of the black top beneath my feet. I cock my head and lean in closer, ignoring the thick smell of congealed blood. The victim is covered in long, horrid gashes that were likely made with some type of large blade. I've got a few at home that would do the trick. My Dark Passengers purrs at the thought of this girl on my table, but I ignore him with practiced ease. I narrow my eyes as I notice thick bruising around her neck. My eyes trail slowly down her body and catalog a few other things as well. A tan line in the shape of a ring on her left hand and a small design painted on the other.<p>

"Jesus Dexter, have a little respect for the dead." Detective Quinn's haggard voice breaks me from my musings and I stand to face him. He looks even worse than me, and that's saying something on this particular day.

"Excuse me?" My voice is lower than it should be but I have never liked Joey Quinn. He's a dirty cop and a drunk and the sight of him is enough to sour any good mood an active case had given me.

"You heard me." Quinn grunts. Apparently he's decided to bring his bad mood to work with him today and make all of us miserable. A flash of unreasonable anger floods me. Well that's just fine. Two can play at that game.

"Should I follow your example then, Detective?" I ask. "You show up to the scene a half hour late with a hangover, and you still smell like booze and whatever cheap slut you managed to con into giving you a pity fuck last night. Maybe _you_ should show some more respect."

Several of the officers gathered around the scene snicker and I hear Vince Masuka loose a low whistle from somewhere behind me. "That's cold, bro." He says.

Quinn seems stunned for a moment, but then he recovers with a harsh glare. "Fuck you!" He snaps, taking a step forward. My Dark Passenger urges me to reach out and snap his flimsy neck. I figure that's a bit too extreme, so I go with mocking scorn instead.

I cast him a disappointed look and shake my head. "I miss Doakes." I say. "He had better comebacks."

A muscle jumps in Quinn's jaw and his hands curl into fists at his side and I think he may actually try to hit me. He never gets the chance, because suddenly Angel is forcing his way between us.

"Enough!" He barks out. "I don't know what the hell has gotten into you two, but you need to stow that shit right now! We've got a dead girl here and she doesn't care about your pissing match." I resist the urge to point out that being dead means she can't care about anything, because Quinn is looking away shamefully and I feel a bit of regret for my own words. Jesus, what is _with _me today?

Once he's sure we aren't going to start swinging, the sergeant turns to me and motions to the body. Assuming that's my queue to do my thing, I step up and clear my throat.

"I'd say our vic has been dead for about eight hours. She's suffered severe lacerations and contusions all along her body, including a broken neck. The latter is likely what killed her. See the way the blood spatter extends all around in an outward fashion? It means that she didn't move from this spot once the cutting started."

Angel nods. "Are you sure the cuts aren't what killed her?"

"Absolutely." I affirm. "The amount of blood present says that her heart was still pumping when the lacerations were made."

Quinn looks troubled. "What's the point of cutting her up so bad if he was just going to snap her neck?"

"Pain." I say grimly. "These cuts are all very deep, but none of them are in potentially fatal areas, like arteries. While she would have eventually died of blood loss, these cuts were likely made with the intention of causing her as much pain as possible before she expired." I look back up at the detectives. "This was torture, plain and simple. He got as much from her as he could and then he killed her quickly once his fun was done."

Quinn frowns severely. "I wonder what she was doing out here?"

I shrug. "Partying, maybe?"

Angel looks to me, his interest peaked. "What makes you say that?"

I kneel down and point to her right hand. "See this symbol?"

Masuka leans in and squints his eyes. "What is that, a tattoo?"

I shake my head. "I don't think so. See how it's faded in some places? I think it might be a stamp."

Angel's eyes light up at once. "Like a club stamp!"

Quinn turns to one of the officers and rolls out an order. "Get a few other guys and canvas the area, find out where the nearest clubs are."

The man nods and is about to take off when Masuka speaks up from where he is still crouched by the body. "There are three nearby. One techno, one surprisingly gentle BDSM place and one 'guys only' place."

The detectives and I go quiet and throw Masuka disgusted looks. I don't even have to fake mine. The smaller man looks up at the silence. "What?"

* * *

><p>I manage to last all of two hours after I return to the station before I call Deb.<p>

"_Hi, you've reached Lieutenant Debra Morgan with the Miami Police Department. I'm not available to take your call right now, but if you leave your name and number after the tone, I'll get back to you as soon as I can."_

The message is short and precise and so very un-Deb that it makes me smile. I can almost hear the annoyed frown in her recorded voice. A small beep brings my attention back to the phone and I clear my throat. "Hey Deb, it's me. I just wanted to call and check up on you, since you called in today. I was going to come by after work too… unless you don't want me to." I have no idea why I added that last bit because the idea is too ludicrous and painful to even entertain. "Anyway, I hope everything is alright and I'll see you later. Bye."

There. Simple and professional. There's no way anyone could hear that and think, "This is guy is totally freaking out." Right?

I exhale loudly through my nose and slouch in my lab chair, staring grumpily at the computer screen in front of me. This sucks. I have a brand new case in front of me that may very well lead to the next guest on my table and all I can think of is Deb. She's swimming in my mind and I just can't reclaim my focus from this morning. I shouldn't have called, I realize. It's like hearing her voice suddenly reminded me that she's real and she kissed me and I kinda enjoyed it and now she's avoiding me and oh my god, I sound like a love struck teenager. My Passenger snaps his jaws warningly and tells me to focus because while I've been sitting here sulking someone has come up behind me. I turn around sharply to come face to face with Quinn, who freezes in the middle of reaching out to knock on my open door.

He retracts his hand and clears his throat. "Hey Dexter. Got a minute?"

I find myself slightly surprised that he has actually sought me out. Quinn had always been the kind of person to ignore his problems and hope they go away. "Sure."

The detective steps forward and takes a breath. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier at the crime scene. You were right, I was being a dick. I've just had a hellish few days and I took it out on you. It wasn't right, and I apologize."

I stare up at him in surprise. This is… unexpected. I have a brief yearning to tell him to go fuck himself, no matter how impressed I am that he actually manned up and apologized. But that's not what Dexter would do and strangely enough, that's not what I want to do either. Because I've had one fucked up week as well, and believe it or not, I actually get it. So once again, I decide to be _honest_.

"Don't worry about it Quinn, I understand. And I'm sorry as well. After everything with the Doomsday Killer, we're all a bit on edge." Well now, isn't that diplomatic of me? Is this what it's like to resolve conflict as a regular person?

Quinn nods gratefully. "I appreciate it, man. I know what you mean. Travis is gone for all of a fucking day, and somebody else is already out killing. Don't these bastards have anything better to do?"

Apparently not. Who would have thought psychopaths could be so inconsiderate?

Quinn shifts awkwardly in front of me. Apparently he's run out of things to say. "Did you find the club?" I ask, giving him a way out of the weirdness.

A look of relief flashes across his face as he answers. "Yeah. The stamp came from that techno club. We've got her on security camera leaving around three forty A.M."

I count back the timeline in my head. "That's just before time of death." I say. "The killer probably followed her out." It's what I'd do. Clubs are easy to hunt in. Dark with flashing lights and pounding music and a moving crowd, they're basically giant sensory deprivation chambers. Hard to protect yourself from a predator when you never know he's there.

Quinn nods. "Yeah, we're trying to get an I.D. on everyone who left just after her. It's slow going though."

"Right. Well I better get back to work." It's a bit abrupt, but I can't feel too bad about my dismissal. Being emotionally mature is exhausting and I'd rather go back to sulking and trying to fool myself into thinking I don't feel anything at all. Quinn leaves without complaint and I grudgingly go back to my work.

* * *

><p>The night air is surprisingly cool on my face when I finally leave work. It's a nice feeling. Normally, I go straight home from work. Not tonight though. I call Jaime while I'm in the car and ask her to watch Harrison for a little while longer. I tell her I have a stop to make before I come home. It's almost nine by the time I pull up outside Deb's apartment. Her car is in its place. She's here. The nervousness hits me just as I reach her door. My heart begins to thunder in my chest and my gut churns uncomfortably. What if she doesn't want to see me? What if she turns me away? Not for the first time I think that emotions are ridiculously over rated.<p>

I knock quickly, before I can convince myself that it's a bad idea. It's quiet for a moment, and then I hear her voice through the door. "Yeah?"

"It's Dexter." I call out. My voice sounds far too soft and _human_. My Passenger growls in my ear, telling me that this is a mistake. That this could jeopardize everything we've worked for. I quietly tell him to shut the fuck up. This is important. I hear the chain come unlatched and the door swings open. My heart jumps up into my throat when we come face to face for the first time since the kiss. I can't stop my eyes from flicking briefly over her form. She's dressed in a baggy white tee shirt and equally baggy grey sweatpants. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail and I'm fairly certain she isn't wearing any make up.

Her eyes glance up at mine nervously. "Hey." She greets softly.

"Hey. Mind if I come in?"

She doesn't say anything, but she opens the door further and I step in. I'm acutely aware of how close we are when my shoulder brushes hers. My chest twinges again in that not entirely uncomfortable way that it does and I tell myself to get it together. She closes the door behind me and wanders over to the couch, dropping unceremoniously into the cushions. She looks down at her lap and not at me and suddenly I can't stand it anymore. "I'm sorry!" I blurt out.

Deb jerks her head up to look at me with surprised eyes. "What?"

The words come tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them. "I'm sorry about last night. About saying the wrong thing and upsetting you. I didn't mean…. I'm just sorry." It's a lame apology but it's all I can muster at the moment. Deb looks up at me like a revelation is unfolding right before her eyes.

"It's not your fault." She says after a moment. "It's mine. You didn't say anything wrong. Actually you said everything right. Everything I wanted…"

I blink in confusion. "I don't understand. If I didn't do anything wrong then why didn't you come in today?"

She flinches and looks back down at her hands where they're fisted in the material of her pants. "Because I'm scared." She whispers finally.

I feel like I've been hit in the gut. Scared? Of me? It's something I've always feared. Seeing Deb's expressive gaze shining with fear of me.

I step closer and kneel down in front of her. "I'm sorry." I choke out. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She shakes her head. "I'm not afraid of _you_, Dex. I'm afraid of _this_."

Now I'm even more confused than before. "This?" I ask.

She looks up and meets my eyes. "Of how I feel. I came to the church last night to tell you something and I'm scared that I'm going to fuck this up. I'm so fucking scared that I'm going to lose you, Dexter."

Her voice is soft and fragile and her eyes shine with wetness and I hate this. I hate seeing Debra, my strong and fearless Debra, look so afraid.

"Never." I swear vehemently, the strength in my own voice surprising me. "You'll never lose me, Deb. I promise. You could never fuck anything up enough to make that possible. I will always be with you."

I need her to understand this. I need her to know how important she is to me. Our faces are close together now and her eyes are wide and staring into mine. "Say it, Deb. I'll still be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

She stares at me with tearful eyes and when she speaks; her voice is like a whisper. A secret just for us. "Dexter, I'm in love with you."

* * *

><p><strong>Boom. As always, reviews and criticisms are greatly appreciated. <strong>


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